


A Place of His Own

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fëanorian Week 2018, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Carnistir desperately needs a place to work uninterrupted. Help comes from an unexpected source.





	A Place of His Own

Carnistir had realized when he was fairly young that he wasn’t like his brothers.

Oh, he loved them, including Tyelko, even if he was a great annoying lump who made noise and messes everywhere he went. (Did he really think anyone else wanted to share their room with a menagerie?)

But he didn’t quite fit in with them.

They all had normal interests, or what passed for normal in their house, anyway. Maitimo was being trained by Grandfather to do whatever it was kings and their most trusted counselors did. Makalaurë made music. Tyelko… was Tyelko. Ok, maybe the way he had with animals was special. When it wasn’t happening in their shared bedroom. Which it all too often was.

And the chaos and disorder in the house didn’t seem to bother _any_ of them.

Carnistir preferred things orderly.

He liked it when he knew where things where, when there wasn’t clutter everywhere. If there was too much to distract him, he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. Couldn’t practice the one talent that was his.

It’s hard to do anything in his house without being noticed – besides his older brothers and his parents, there’s also his cousin Finno around as often as not, and a small troop of apprentices looking to one or the other of his parents. Nevermind trying to find a quiet, orderly place to do something without being noticed.

He’s fairly sure his parents wouldn’t encourage his interest, and his brothers… well, Tyelko _might_ see the use of it, since it would mean fewer scoldings for him, but Carnistir’s fairly sure Maitimo and Kano would laugh.

It’s not as if Father thinks much of clothing or fashion, other than to needle his brothers on the subject, or complain that Aunt Findis should take more of an interest in it. (Carnistir has yet to figure out why it’s bad that his uncles care about their appearance but not right that his eldest aunt does not.)

So Father is unlikely to encourage a son who’s learning needlework, at least as far as Carnistir can tell. Which means he has to learn without anyone finding out.

It’s hard to do. There’s no one at home he can learn from, and he can hardly stroll into the Royal Library or the Tailors’ Guild looking for help.

It’s easier to find time to practice when he’s at Grandfather’s. Maitimo never minds taking him, as long as he promises to stay out of trouble and within the palace walls. Seeing as Carnistir never goes looking for trouble, and within the palace walls is the one place he ever gets any time undisturbed, it’s not much of a sacrifice on his part.

He’s been sewing quietly for several hours when a shadow falls across the book he’s been using as a guide for the stitch he’s trying to master.

He looked up, trying not to appear guilty, but prepared to defend himself to his brother – except that it’s not Maitimo crouching down to look at his book.

It’s so much worse.

It’s Indis.

“Oh, pitya,” she sighed.

His father is going to be livid if he finds out.

But Indis is already pulling him gently to his feet, gathering his work and his book up along with him.

“Come with me, Carnistir,” she said.

To his own surprise, he found himself walking alongside her without resistance as she steered him through halls, leaving behind the ones he knew well in favor of an upper wing he has never been to before.

He stumbled to a halt as they entered the corridor to wherever it is his not-grandmother has in mind. The wall hangings here are _amazing._ They are like nothing he’s ever seen before. They’re so colorful, so _alive_. These are the work of a master, something he can only aspire to after hundreds of years of study and practice. Maybe.

He looked up at Indis.

“These are all your grandmother’s work.”

Her smile for once is not Laurelin in summer, but dimmed, and rather sad.

“This way, my little love.”

He glanced from Indis’ unhappy smile to the walls, and back. Then he followed her into the room.

The light streaming in was as good as the light in Ammë’s studio. The room had the feel of a place that has not been used in many years, much longer than Carnistir has been alive, and yet it is still spotlessly clean, tidy and organized. It is the best workroom he could imagine, and that was before he noticed the racks of thread organized by color and weight, and spotted the neatly stored bolts of material.

He looked at Indis.

“Miriel would not be happy to think that her studio went unused while her grandson hid in corners to hone his talent, darling.”

“This… is my grandmother’s workroom?” Carnistir asked, unable to process that he is standing in a space where the grandmother who is more an abstract than a real person used to actually live and work.

Indis shook her head.

“No, Carnistir, it is yours. Miriel was firm that she would not return. And these things were not meant as a monument. They were meant to be used.”

“But…” Carnistir hesitated.

Indis of all people was offering him this amazing gift unlooked for, and he wanted it more than anything. Nor did he want to sound ungrateful. Indis was a nice person, and he avoided her mostly because he knew Father didn’t like her. He didn’t want to get either of them in trouble.

“Ask, Carnistir. It is usually the best way.”

“Is this yours to give?”

He winced, because he could hear how blunt the question sounded. But he didn’t even know what to call her. Father would be livid if he called her grandmother, ‘Queen’ sounded too impersonal for someone who’s been part of his family all his life, and ‘Lady’ is somehow worse.

“No, it is not mine to give. It belonged to your grandmother. But it is also not Finwë’s or Fëanaro’s to withhold. Miriel was my dear friend, Carnistir, and I knew her well. She would want the grandson whose interests are most like hers to have this space. Use it well – and feel free to bar your brothers from it, should the need arise.”

Carnistir’s jaw dropped.

“I will speak to Finwë in any case. I think much trouble can be averted if it is made clear to Tyelko that this wing is not open to his furred or feathered friends, no matter how well-behaved they may be.”

“You mean it?”

“Very much so. You are like your grandmother in more ways than one, dear – she would never have been able to abide such a mess in her space either.”

Carnistir has never been much of a hugger, but today, for Indis, he could make an exception.

The kiss that drops on his hair may not be from his actual grandmother, but it’s the closest he’s likely to come.

“I’ll have someone bring you a snack in a bit,” Indis murmured as he let go, not attempting to hold him any longer than he is comfortable with.

“Thank you,” Carnistir said simply.

He didn’t mean about the snack, and Indis seemed to understand that, for she smiled as he bent to examine his book on the worktable.

It will be years yet before he is ready to make full use of the room, but for now, it is enough just to have a quiet, calm space of his own. (And his grandmother’s.)

 

 


End file.
